


Fear Makes Us Stronger

by Benedicthiddleston



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: 1x07, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e07 Can Opener, Mac's Internal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benedicthiddleston/pseuds/Benedicthiddleston
Summary: Mac processed a lot of fear when dealing with El Noche.





	1. Chapter 1

I’ve always been good at hiding my emotions. This op – it’s just another day in the field. But this op feels different. I feel – fear. Fear for my own wellbeing. Fear of losing myself in a place that is not a home, but a punishment. Riley tried to prepare me for what is coming, but I don’t feel ready. The plan wavers through my mind, and I can’t think straight. Sitting on this bus, wearing this orange getup, cold metal handcuffs around my wrists – I feel the edges of panic setting in. I have no tools, no weapons, nothing that can bring me comfort or safety. I am at the mercy of prison guards and other fellow prisoners. There is no trusty Swiss Army knife, no paperclip, no chemical equation that will save me. I must do this all on my own. Even with Jack and Riley watching over me, I am on my own.

As the bus moves ever closer to the prison, I try to keep my head in the game. Get in, get to El Noche, get out, take down the entire clan of brutal dictators and mercenaries terrorizing drug running between Mexico and the United States.

I can hear the jeering, the yelling, the taunts as new _fish_ come closer and closer to the stone four walls waiting to be my home for the next – hours, days, weeks, maybe even _months_. The idea of this op lasting months makes me feel sick. Jack, Riley, _Bozer_ – I can’t be separated from them for that long. I would lose myself. My purpose would be shattered. I wouldn’t know who I was by the end.  

The only thing I can think of to keep myself centered, to keep my head in the game, is to lean my head back against the seat and swallow, closing my eyes to try to block out the noise and the fear. I am me. I am Angus MacGyver. I am a trained secret government covert agent. I have been in far worse situations than this. I have dismantled hundreds of bombs and IEDs. I have survived getting shot and losing my girlfriend, only to find out she was still alive and had turned on all of us. I am a brilliant individual who uses the things around me to fix problems, solve solutions, and save the world. I can do this. I am _me_.

But I also pray for guidance for whatever might happen to me inside those four walls. I can’t ignore the jeering or the yelling. I am new meat – and I am not strong enough to be a brute force in a place I have no control. In that way I am inexperienced. In that way, I am at a disadvantage. I am not Frank Morris in real life. I am not a bad person. I fight for good in unconventional ways.

I let out a shaky breath. I will be able to master this operation. I am the tool that can break out of this prison and get intel on El Noche and his mercenaries. I can do this.

The bus comes to a stop, and the guards are yelling. I open my eyes and take a deeper breath. The handcuffs pull as I stand. I could have picked them long ago, but I’m now just a lowly ward of the state – prison scum. I must slip into my cover and be Frank Morris. Mac will just have to wait.

* * *

 

I’m pretty sure I’m starving myself in this place. The food is inedible. I worry about how long I can last without eating if this op doesn’t get moving soon. I would much rather be eating if it weren’t for my surroundings – cold, grey walls, steel bars, loud and obnoxious taunts, and jeers, and the appalling color of orange. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since I was processed. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to do either thing – eating, breathing – if I don’t get on with the plan.

Whoever is out there, please don’t let this end badly. Please.

* * *

I met up with El Noche, got him to my side, and we escaped. My part of the deal was completed. But my heart got in the way – no needless deaths, don’t kill the innocent prison guard. It tipped El Noche off that maybe I’m not who I say I am.

The breath leaves my lungs out in the cold, dark woods, El Noche’s men surrounding us. I didn’t see it coming – the butt of a gun slamming into my spine, knocking the air from my lungs and forcing my body to crumple to the ground. The gun hits the back of my head and I struggle to keep conscious. It is a fruitless effort – I feel the pull of darkness just after a trickle of blood drips down my neck. I’m gonna have one hell of a concussion when I wake up.

* * *

I wake up in pure darkness, my body cramped into a tiny space. It takes me a few minutes to orient myself – I’m in the trunk of a car. _I don’t do small_. Granted, my fear of heights out numbers all my other phobias, but claustrophobia is the real deal. And I’m stuck in a damn car trunk, my head aching, my chest heaving with fear and exhaustion. I can’t remember the last time I slept. Forced coma notwithstanding.

I know that the moment the car stops, I’ll be out of time. I need to get a message out into the world, and I needed to do it yesterday. My brain quickly sprints into action, hands following suit as I turn the tail light I’m closest to into a gigantic Morse code apparatus.

As I numbly punch out Jack’s number repeatedly, I feel my body sag. I am likely going to die at the end of this road trip. And I can only imagine what El Noche will do to me – images of blood, guts, and lost appendages skip over my brain. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my brain to be quiet just for a moment. I can’t deal – I feel so lost. I’m sure I’ve lost Riley, Jack, and Thornton. I don’t know if they will ever find me, even after I’m dead.

My head hurts and I let out a moan. The concussion has me sick to my stomach, my brain still working in overdrive. I don’t want to die – not now, not this way. But I couldn’t tell El Noche a thing. I am a trained covert operative. I’m meant to assume other identities. I am meant to face disease, danger, and death. But not this way, no, not by El Noche’s hand. Not today.

Please, god, or whoever is out there, don’t let this happen to me. Get Jack. I need – _I need him_.

I do the Morse code for as long as I can, my eyes tired, my body worn out. When my hands drop from the wiring, I struggle to catch myself from falling asleep. My consciousness is waning.

But it doesn’t matter – the trunk swings open, El Noche’s face glaring back at me. I looked uneasily at their menacing faces. This is not going to end well – _I’m gonna die, fuck_.

* * *

 

My consciousness wanes as they shove the oxygen mask against my face, a hand gripping my hair and dragging my head back against the chair. But it isn’t oxygen they are trying to give me – no, much more sinister. Nitrogen. Intended to crowd out life-sustaining oxygen in my bloodstream, muddle my brain, and force me to speak about things that are private. I rebel, but the nitrogen continues to come, and I breathe in poison. This is how I die. Not by a gun or a bomb – blood poisoning. _Drowning_. My hands strain to be rid of their bonds, my body slumped in the crude living room furniture. _So fucking uncomfortable_.

Through it all, I can’t _focus_ , damn it.

And then a distraction – _rescue_. It pulls El Noche’s henchmen away from where I’m strapped to the chair, my lungs desperate to drag in oxygen when the mask falls away. My brain kicks into overdrive, my improvisation still an active part of my imagination. I have a risk of injury from what I’m about to do, but I don’t care. I feel like death warmed over as it is – _brain, work!_

I kick out and the nitrogen tank topples. With the last of my energy, I pop the compressor and the tank goes spinning. My body slumps further in the chair, my wrists catching in their bonds. The tank does its job – it knocks out El Noche’s henchmen. I sag, trying to drag in clean air.  

Out of the corner of my vision, I see another Mexican headed my direction, a gun firmly in his hand, the barrel pointing straight at my body. From that distance, he could hit my head or my chest and it wouldn’t matter – I was gonna die.

If death is at my doorstep, I don’t want to see the shot. My brain is fuzzy and the nitrogen circling my bloodstream disorients me. But I know what it means when a gun is staring down my line of sight. My hands go limp in their restraints and I swallow, bile in my throat, acid in my blood. I close my eyes, prepared to meet my end. El Noche had tortured me, and even though the cavalry sounded nearby, it meant nothing for my beating heart. I was too disoriented to focus on anything else. I waited, expecting the shot. And I prayed to whatever god could hear me that I wasn’t a bad person. This wasn’t me. All I wanted was peace. All I wanted was to be me. All I wanted was –

 _Jack_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac's POV


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff Request

Words, thoughts, and images scatter through Jack’s mind as he sits in the helicopter headed back to Phoenix headquarters. Mac is beside him, mercifully sound asleep, a nasal cannula supplying pure oxygen hooked over his ears and stuck in his nose. He’d had a mini panic attack when the medic had tried to give him a face mask, but Jack had been perceptive to his partner’s anxiety and distress, convincing the kind soul to use a nasal cannula instead. Jack’s been around the world of medicine long enough to know that even though the pulse oximeter read one hundred percent at that moment, that didn’t mean squat about Mac’s condition. It only meant every red blood cell in the body was filled to capacity with – well, _something_. Could have been oxygen, could have been carbon dioxide, or could have been nitrogen. _Pure nitrogen. Nacho can go fuck himself._

After knocking down the enemy, Jack had grown concerned for his partner when Mac didn’t seem to track his voice or respond coherently. Taking in the scene of battered cartel men, and a gigantic tank with the word _nitrogen_ in bold letters lying on the ground, Jack felt his heart stutter to a stop. Somewhere between the prison and their current position in the cartel’s compound, El Noche had the hinting suspicion that Frank Morris wasn’t who he said he was, and Mac, being the covert spy he was, tried his damnedest to fight the growing unease of danger. And El Noche tortured Mac to get information. How long it had been going on, Jack didn’t know.

Jack had yelled for a medic and knelt before his young partner. Jack had concern written all over his face.

“Mac, buddy, you okay?”

Mac’s eyes blinked multiple times, eyes wandering the room between blinks. His chest heaved with exertion, a lot of focus on breathing – well, clean air. Even though he didn’t respond, he did give a half shrug, arms hanging limp at his side.

 _Brain functioning at half capacity. Not a good sign._ “We’ll get you some help and then we’re going home, okay, kid?”

The medic arrived, medical bag in hand. Jack could only guess what happened, but he was a fairly good observer, so he told the medic the nitty gritty of what probably went down and the medic pulled out oxygen, vital signs monitoring equipment, and that damn oxygen mask. That’s when Mac went into panic mode, trying to scramble from the chair away from the advances of the just-trying-to-help medical personnel.

Jack gently took Mac’s hands in his own and squeezed. “Mac, bud, we just want to make sure you’re okay. Come on, focus on me.”

Mac calmed by only a fraction, barely letting the medic apply a blood pressure cuff and the pulse oximeter. The pulse oximeter read ninety percent on room air, with a heart rate of – _oh fuck_. Between the panic attack and the alleged nitrogen poisoning, Mac’s heart rate was going at one hundred and forty-two beats per minute. No one could sustain that for long.

“Could we just use a nasal cannula? By the looks of it, he’s had some trauma recently from a forced oxygen mask, and well, it wasn’t oxygen, if you know what I mean.”

The medic nodded, switching out oxygen delivery devices and recording the vitals on a nearby sheet of lined paper.

Jack turned his focus back on Mac, continuing to grip shaking hands. “Hey, Mac, it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you a change of clothes and this nice individual is gonna get you some oxygen. We’ll get out of here in a few minutes. Do you understand?” Jack figured Mac was going to want a new set of clothes before they got to the exfil drop. Even though Phoenix was working to round up the cartel running across the compound, securing the place, they had had to come in hot via undetectable motor vehicles, the helicopter transports about two miles north of their current position.

Mac swallowed tightly, acknowledging Jack’s question with a small head nod. He reluctantly let the medic slip a nasal cannula on. Jack got up to grab his bag he’d dropped by the front door, a change of clothes, a water bottle, two of Mac’s favorite granola bars, and Mac’s phone packed up for the return home. Mac’s hands shook as he tried to concentrate on what the medic was telling him, his brain seeming to misfire. Nitrogen poisoning certainly had fucked with his lungs and his brain.

Bag in hand, Jack returned quickly, slipping out the water bottle and putting it into Mac’s free hand. “Drink.”

Seeming to be more alert, Mac just nodded, eyes first on Jack and then tracking back to the medic. They had taken off the blood pressure cuff but not the pulse oximeter, hand fiercely scribbling down numbers, readings and facts. The pulse oximeter read ninety-eight percent oxygen saturation and heart rate one hundred and fifteen beats per minute. Clumsily, with a definite decrease in hand-eye coordination and fine motor function, Mac twisted the cap off the water bottle and drank a sip, nose wrinkling at the offending foreign object in his nostrils.

Jack pulled out the change of clothes, patiently waiting for Mac to finish drinking what he wanted.

Mac handed the bottle back and frowned when the medic clicked their pen and stood.

“Let’s get to exfil as soon as possible. We need a doctor to see you, Agent MacGyver.”

A pang of worry hit Jack’s heart. Hopefully it was nothing to fret over. Maybe the medic was just being overly cautious.

“Get dressed and then we’ll head to exfil,” Jack responded, handing Mac the clothes. Black slacks and – okay, Jack had grabbed it hastily from his locker in the TAC room – a familiar and almost-worn out black shirt with the faces of Led Zepplin plastered on the front.

Unfortunately, Mac just stared, holding the clothing, looking mildly lost.

Kneeling, Jack put a hand on Mac’s knee. “What’s going on in that massive brain of yours, kiddo?”

Mac hadn’t spoken in quite some time, his voice rough as he finally responded. “I don’t – can’t – get up.” He closed his eyes, frustration apparent all over his face.

Jack gently squeezed Mac’s kneecap and stood up. “We got the Humvee nearby?”

The medic nodded as they packed up their equipment. “I’ll be in Humvee three. I want to hook him back up to the pulse oximeter.”

It was an awkward ten minute affair. Jack carried Mac – literally carried, the poor guy – bridal style out of the imposing _fortress_ and to Humvee three. In the distance, Jack could see his team rounding up the cartel, El Noche faintly visible. Jack got Mac into the Humvee, shut the door, and then helped his brother change into a better outfit.

The medic jumped in when Jack signaled, and set up the vital signs equipment once again. Mac still had his nasal cannula on, the pulse oximeter reading one hundred percent.

Once they were done, Mac looked beat. He leaned against Jack as the driver slid in and they headed off for exfil.

Jack had – well, frankly, he had been terrified of what he was going to find when he sent his men into that compound, following close behind. Would Mac already be dead? What hell had Nacho put Mac through? And when the answers came around, Jack had almost thrown a fist into the wall, had it not been for his careful ministrations and undertaking of Mac’s care after such traumatic torture.

They reached the transport helicopters in record time, got Mac – who was unsteady but finally able to at least partially walk from the vehicle to the waiting chopper – into a seat, and Jack jumped in after his best friend and partner. The medic climbed in after them, continuing to monitor Mac.

Now they were back in the present, Mac having slipped into a restless sleep, head on Jack’s shoulder. The pulse oximeter read ninety eight percent, heart rate at eighty-five. While Mac was normally in the sixties for a heart rate, Jack understood that it was going to take time to recover from the nitrogen poisoning. It largely depended on how long El Noche had been forcing him to breathe in the pure gas.

Nitrogen lived in the atmosphere, and humans even breathed it in and out with regular inspiration and expiration, but it didn’t cross into the blood stream because oxygen was what hemoglobin – aka red blood cells – was attracted to. When you took the oxygen away, the hemoglobin latches on to whatever it can – and if that’s nitrogen, then that’s what starts circling the body. And nitrogen wasn’t really compatible with life. Not to mention the inability to breathe off carbon dioxide. Honestly, it was a fucked up mess and quite the torture method.

The pilot reported they were twenty minutes out from Phoenix, which had medical staff on standby for Mac. Jack tugged his sleeping boy closer to him, resting his chin on Mac’s messy blond hair.

Those twenty minutes felt like twenty hours to Jack, but the time he spent waiting outside Phoenix Medical – two hours in fact – felt like two years. He knew that the doctors and nurses were just doing a thorough check-up on Mac, drawing blood, making sure there would be no permanent damage, but Jack hated waiting. He was restless, pacing from one end of the waiting room to the other, his mind conjuring up worst-case scenario on Mac’s condition, the what-ifs on what went down in that compound, and even the shit Mac had to take while in prison. If Mac wasn’t traumatized from this experience – well, there was no way Mac wouldn’t be. Mac was a good man at heart, always striving to make the world a better place, always putting others before himself.

Finally, after the longest two hours of his life, Jack was waved back into medical and lead to a back exam room. Mac was awake, and definitely grouchy. “I feel fine, can’t I go home?” His voice could be heard down the hallway as they approached, and Jack stifled a laugh.

“We want to monitor you for twenty-four hours, Agent MacGyver. You received a fair number of bruises and scrapes from your time in the prison, and a handful of cracked ribs. Not to mention your exposure to pure nitrogen. We will discuss this tomorrow morning, but for now you are staying here.” That voice was Dr. Earl Tristen, a robust sixty-four year old physician with over thirty years of experience in the Navy, the National Security Agency, and the Department of Homeland Security. How he had found a home treating scrapes, bruises and the occasional gunshot wound with the Department of External Services, as the Phoenix Foundation was known at the time he was hired over six years before, was beyond Jack’s comprehension.

Jack knocked on the wall outside the room, letting himself in before anyone could object. Mac was covered in two blankets, and his vital signs were being constantly monitored. Dr. Tristen sat on a nearby stool, his face pinched in frustration.

“Jack can watch over me. Why does it have to be _here_?” Mac whined, crossing his arms over his chest in a pout. Jack almost laughed, rolling his eyes. Mac was definitely grouchy.

“Because I don’t know what other side effects you’re going to experience from this type of exposure, and I don’t want to have to find out tomorrow you died in Jack’s condo. I’m sure Jack wouldn’t want that either.”

Jack held his hands up in surrender. “Don’t drag me into this! Mac, you know I’d take you home with me in a heartbeat, but I’m with Dr. Tristen on this one. You’re safer right here for the time being.”

Mac sighed, closing his eyes and flopping back on the pillow behind him. He turned onto his side, facing away from the pair, curling his legs up to his chest. He didn’t care if his body ached or that it was compromising his lungs – he felt _helpless_. He had begrudgingly accepted their argument, but even Jack could tell Mac was gonna fight it again – probably in a handful of hours.

Dr. Tristen let out a measured breath and stood. “Call Jessica if you need anything. We’ll recheck your blood work again in three hours and again in six hours, just to make sure you aren’t having any further adverse effects from the nitrogen.” And with that, the good doctor strode out of the room, closing the curtain with a whoosh.

Jack stole the stool, wheeling himself up next to the bed.

“Come on, Mac. Don’t be too hard on them. They just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Mac didn’t answer, keeping still in his curled position.

“Mac. Talk to me.”

A beat of silence. “My Morse code was fine.”

Jack almost had to do a double take. All that time down at the compound, Jack had believed Mac’s brain was a little frizzled. But apparently everything Jack had said had been clearly understood by Mac. Maybe it was his peripheral nervous system failing to function correctly – or Mac had just been an asshole. Jack preferred to believe it was the former.

He let out a breezy laugh, cackling. “Sure, buddy, sure.”

Mac kicked his legs out from their curled position and finally rolled over to face Jack. His eyes were open, but that beautiful blue was dim – a side effect of the poisoning. The nasal cannula was still in place, and Jack swore he saw more color in Mac’s cheeks then when they had been back at the compound.

“Thanks for getting me out of there. I thought…”

Jack softly put a finger to Mac’s lips and then absently brushed back a strand of hair. “It was my job. You’re my partner. I’m just glad you’re – _alive_.”

The tears started to fall, and Jack could do nothing to stop them. He just kept a hand on Mac, rubbing gentle circles and speaking softly.

“You had me worried there for a minute. But you’re going to be okay. I love you, Mac. I never liked this foolhardy op in the first place, especially when it meant you had to go in dark. I don’t think I slept the entire time. Finding you alive – man, you know I’m not a religious man, but I prayed and thanked whoever was listening. I’ll always come for you – no matter what.”

“I know,” Mac whispered.

The pair fell into comfortable silence, Mac eventually dozing off to sleep, breathing even and unlabored. Jack traced Mac’s hands with his finger, noting that color had returned. They had been slightly blue upon finding Mac imprisoned in that chair, tape entrapping his wrists, body scrunched down uncomfortably, eyes wild and fearful. That had been the first sign something terrible had gone down.

Now, Jack was beside his best friend in Phoenix Medical, watching him sleep. This was – normal, which was depressing as hell because it was _always_ Mac lying on that bed, in bad shape, fighting to live. But it was a comfortable normal today, with the knowledge that Mac was going to survive and walk away with no permanent damage. He’d have nightmares after the fact – once the nitrogen cleared his system completely, Mac would likely wake up screaming. It was normal to re-experience trauma. But for now, Jack would take the quiet, take the moment and hold onto it like a lifeline.

 _You scared me, Mac. But I will always come for you, and I will always make sure you are safe._ Jack couldn’t help the tears in his own eyes. _I love you – so damn much._

 **Fin**   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3rd person view, with majority/all internal thoughts being Jack's.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I don't know how much fluff I included, but my brain got away after 2600+ words just going over Jack's response and Mac - well, being Mac. 
> 
> Proofread vaguely. All mistakes are mine. I own nothing, except any OCs you don't recognize.
> 
> Love, Danielle

**Author's Note:**

> My first MacGyver fanfic! I love this show so so much! 1x07 Can Opener and 2x04 X-ray + Penny are my two favorite episodes. I'm waiting to see what episode in season 3 will become my favorite. Mac whump is my fav. I love him.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate it :) Find me on tumblr as HiddlesPineBatch


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